


Unruffled

by Nutkin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: blindfold_spn, Kink Meme, M/M, Pre-Series, Weecest, Wing Kink, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 23:30:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2288621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nutkin/pseuds/Nutkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam starts growing wings, and Dean really likes them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unruffled

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Blindfold kink meme prompt "Sam growing wings. Pre-series. Dean gets seriously turned on by them."

 

It's never been easy for Sam to keep secrets from Dean. There's just no way to; every aspect of their lives is so crammed together and mixed up that keeping anything private is a lost cause. He's tried sometimes, but eventually it all comes tumbling out the same way: muffled, quiet conversations late at night, when Dad is fast asleep and he needs Dean to know, needs someone to understand.

When the wings start coming in, he tries his best to hide it.

There's no explanation. No reason for it. He pores over library books, racks his brain for details from the last few hunts, but nothing makes sense. One day he just wakes up to a burning, searing pain along his shoulder blades, cutting like a knife, and two days later he can see it in the mirror: the otherwise smooth, tan skin of his back giving way to wings.

"Dude," Dean says that morning, eyeing his hoodie. "It's like eighty outside."

"I'm cold," Sam huffs, reaching for the cereal. He can feel them shifting there under the thick cotton, though, painfully over-sensitive, and sweat beads up on his forehead. They aren't very big yet, but he knows they'll get there. If there's one thing he can count on these days it's his ability to grow like a freak in record time.

He hunches his shoulders, not meeting Dean's gaze. He's sure Dean can already tell he's hiding something.

*

In the end it's a miracle he can keep it to himself as long as he does. It's a little less than a week -- six whole days of freaking out by himself, piling on layers right out of the shower, and skipping gym class -- before he forgets to lock the bathroom door and Dean bursts in and catches him. Sees them.

"Oh my fucking god," he says, dropping a can of Barbasol. Sam's got them spread, feathery and white in front of the mirror. They don't get wet like hair would; water just sticks to them, but the only way to get it off is to air dry. He can't imagine the roughness of a towel on the weird, delicate feathers.

Sam stumbles backwards, wings pulling in instinctively as he almost trips over the laundry basket.

"Get out of here, Dean," he moans, yanking a towel in front of him, but Dean just keeps staring.

"Jesus Christ, Sammy. What the fuck."

"I don't know," he says miserably. He can feel his face going hot with embarrassment and horror and anger, like the times Dean's walked in on him jerking off. "It just happened, and it won't go away, and I don't _know_."

Dean's eyes, still wide and round with shock, blink a few times before seeming to focus on Sam's face.

"Okay," he says, voice a little softer. "It's okay. It's -- well, it's not okay, it's totally fucking weird, but we're gonna -- we'll figure it out."

Sam's voice goes treacherously thin and shaky. "How are we gonna figure this out, Dean?"

"I don't know," he says. "But we will."

*

Maybe the only saving grace is that Dad's out of town on a hunt. That's what he keeps coming back to as he lays on his stomach and stretches his wings out.

They _have_ gotten bigger. Four more days of research, this time both of them hitting the books and search engines with everything they've got, have yielded nothing but wings already getting too big to hide under clothes. When he lets them go, they brush up against Dean's bed on the other side of the narrow room.

"Do they hurt?" Dean asks. He's been pretending to read a magazine for the last half-hour, like he isn't as curious about them as Sam is.

"Kinda." He rolls his shoulders, feeling the muscles pull gently around the thick, fleshy base of each wing. They ache like he's been carrying a backpack loaded down with books all week. "It hurts to keep them wrapped up. But they actually..."

There's no way to explain how it feels to stretch them out, extending as far as they want to go. He gives them an experimental flutter and gasps when the air hits them, sliding through each sensitive feather.

"Feel good?" Dean finishes.

Sam shifts awkwardly, all elbows. "Um. Yeah, sorta."

Dean lets his magazine slide off his lap.

He reaches out slowly, almost like he's not sure if he's actually going to do it, and touches the edge of that nearby wing. His hand is gentle, way gentler than Sam ever imagined it could be. He sucks in a reflexive breath, the sensation still new and overwhelming, but Dean is careful when he slides his fingertips down the longer feathers there, following their grain.

_Dean's petting me_ , Sam thinks dizzily. He shuts his eyes and presses his face against his pillow, not sure why it feels so fucking weird to be touched like that. Feathers don't have nerve endings, he knows, but every time Dean's fingers press on them it sends a hot little shockwave up the -- bone, he guesses, not totally clear on his new anatomy.

"Wow," Dean whispers after a while, and Sam realizes all at once that he just made some kind of really embarrassing noise, and his cock is swelling hard in his boxers.

"Don't," he mumbles, horrified, and twitches his wing away.

The room suddenly seems way too small, and he seems to be taking up way too much of it. His wings twinge painfully as he pulls them back in, trying to fold himself smaller than he is, but that's nothing compared to the guilty, dirty heat clawing its way through him.

"Can you just -- go away for a while?" he whispers miserably, hunching his shoulders as he sits up.

"Sammy. Dude." Dean sits up too, perching on the edge of his bed. "It's okay. That feels good, huh?"

Not for the first time since this whole wing thing started, Sam wonders why God hates him.

"Yeah," he manages.

"I like touching 'em," Dean says. "It's okay if it feels good."

Without invitation, he clambers over to Sam's bed. It's still embarrassing, way too embarrassing for him to deal with looking at Dean right then -- but Dean just touches one big hand to the place between his wings, right where they're sprouting, and rubs it there gently. It's too much, too good, right where the muscles ache and pull, and Sam gasps sharply, not able to hold back a soft little keening sound.

"I like them," Dean whispers, thumb rubbing sweet little circles at the base of one wing. He lets out a hot huff of a sigh, and Sam realizes with a crazy, overwhelming jolt that Dean's hard, too. "They're so -- I don't know, Sammy, I just wanna touch 'em. No one else knows they're there, just me. Let me make 'em feel good."

"Okay," he whispers back, voice small and bare. None of it makes any sense -- Dean likes touching him? Dean wants to touch him? Dean likes the _wings?_ \-- but Sam's too far gone to think about it. Dean's hand is soothing at the same time it's stoking the heat under his skin, and before he knows it he's almost whimpering, "Please, Dean, please--"

"Yeah," Dean sighs, tightening the arm around his back and pulling him close. "C'mere, Sammy."

His wings spread of their own volition, snapping wide and full as Dean pulls him into his lap. The hot, hard bulge of Dean's cock is unmistakable under him, and Sam can feel it go harder when Dean touches him again -- running his palm up from the center of his back, along the top layer of feathers as far as he can reach.

"Is that good?" Dean's breath is warm against his face, lips soft and full and bumping up against his own.

Sam just kisses him, wings closing around the two of them as Dean's tongue knocks against his.


End file.
